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| Excerpt from THE SECRET AT ST. SANS |
by Terri Kay. CHAPTER 1 FROM HIS OFFICE behind the newsroom of the Cellis Courier, chief editor Ed Corbal telephoned the desk of reporter John Waters for an update on the article Waters was working on. “Waters, are you ready with that piece on the doctor yet? I need it for the next edition.” “Almost, I’ll be right there.” Within minutes John stood in the chief’s door. “Here you go,” John said as he handed the draft article to his supervisor. “I’m still waiting for the photo of him, but Bert in records said he was pretty sure that we have an archive photo.” “Mmmh, let’s see,” Ed began reading, then stopped, and began rubbing his eyes. “Wait, my eyes are really hurting now.” He handed the article back to John. “Read it to me please.” “Local Doctor Drowns--” “Maybe we can do something with the title, like jazz it up or something,” Ed interrupted. “Sorry, go ahead, keep reading.” John made a small mark on his copy, then continued reading, “The body of Dr. Thomas Swanson of Cellis was recovered on Saturday from the Ketchetaw River just south of St. Sans, Missouri. Preliminary reports indicated that Dr. Swanson died of asphyxiation due to drowning. Dr. Swanson was a surgeon with the Tanner, Meyer and Smertz Clinic in Cellis and was the son-in-law of Dr. Brian Tanner, one of the owners of the clinic. Funeral arrangements are pending. Other details will be provided as soon as they become available.” John looked at Ed. “How does that sound?” “Okay so far. Do you have anything else?” “Not yet, but--” Ed interrupted again, “Do you know why he was in Missouri?” “Not yet. The office manager at the clinic called the story in this morning.” John hesitated, “I’m still waiting for more. I’ve called and left two messages for that woman, but she hasn’t called back yet. Oh, wait, I did find out that Mrs. Swanson is still in Missouri though.” “Follow up on it--maybe there’s a story behind this, something more than a drowning death. But for now, get your piece in on time for the next edition.” ALMOST ONE MONTH earlier, on a Wednesday evening in September, as Dr. Thomas Swanson checked the Tanner, Meyer and Smertz Clinic’s billing printout, he found no unusual orders for scheduled drugs--those would have triggered a Drug Enforcement Administration investigation. But two entries for trihyperboodiol appeared in February. Three entries more were made in March, and the last prescription was issued in April. In the clinic’s billing statement for the first quarter of the fiscal year, a total of six prescriptions for this expensive drug appeared and all were from Dr. Brian Tanner. Tom noticed the drug entries quite by accident; he was looking for something entirely different. The name of the drug caught his attention, especially since one entry was for a patient whose last name matched the name of one of the women he was looking for. Were there any other links to the mysterious ladies? Tom decided to check the patient records. He flipped on his computer and entered Melanika Gissellera, the name of the first woman whom he’d seen Brian with long after the clinic was closed. Her name appeared, along with her telephone number, but in the column for the address, the word “archive” appeared. Could he get any more information? He tried to access her records in a different way. No luck. He tried a third way but got the same results as the first. On a hunch, he entered her telephone number. Following her name, six other names appeared as linked files. No addresses appeared on this screen either, just the word “archive” over and over in the address column. Tom tried to open each file in succession, but just as before, he was blocked. Getting the files from the archives might give him the information he needed about Brian, but the request might alert the wrong people that he was investigating his boss and father-in-law, Dr. Brian Tanner. Tom had gotten the billing statement by accident. Someone had carried it into the employees’ lounge and left it momentarily. It should have never left the billing office or the hands of one of the clinic owners, Dr. Tanner, Dr. Meyer or Dr. Smertz. But whoever left it was bound to be looking for it, and Tom wasn’t about to pass up the chance to look at it, even if only for a little while. The report could give patient information that he had no other access to. But now that he had it, he could see that he needed the patient files as well, especially if he wanted his plan to work. Tom couldn’t pull the records personally; the clinic had strict rules on who could retrieve patient files. And he couldn’t sweet-talk the records clerks into pulling the files immediately; both had left promptly for the day at four thirty, and it was close to seven now. Tom had hit a roadblock that evening; he would have to order the files the first thing in the morning and wait until they arrived. He chose three records to start with and stuffed the bulky quarterly billing statement into his duffel bag to take home. ON FRIDAY MORNING of that week, Rene Dezza piled the ten yearbooks from Pye Academy onto the desk of her boss, Steven J. Mitchell. Six of the books were from the 1971-72 school year; the rest were from the prior school year. It had taken three months and about one thousand dollars to collect them all. In her usual efficient manner, she had managed to get them. But months after getting the order from Steve to round up the old yearbooks, Rene still didn’t know why or what Steve planned to do with them. She knew her boss well enough to figure out that something big had to be up. Steve was planning to do something to someone, and whatever he had in mind wouldn’ t be pleasant for the recipient. But what was Steve planning, and for whom? And how did the Pye Academy yearbooks fit in? “Pye Academy, Cellis, Indiana, right?” She hoped that Steve would tell her how the yearbooks had anything to do with the resort where they worked now. Roger’s Hideaway Resort in St. Sans, Missouri, was hundreds of miles away from the northern Indiana town of Cellis. Although she and Steve had worked in Cellis years ago for the same resort company, these books were from a period many years earlier. Steve didn’t say anything but sat motionless, staring at the pile. Rene slid into one of the chairs in front of Steve’s desk and picked up one of the yearbooks. As Rene turned the pages of the 1971 Pye Crust, she ran her fingers across some pages and flipped quickly through others. One face caught her attention, prompting a comment from her. “This guy isn’t bad looking. I wonder whatever happened to him.” Steve now stared at her but still didn’t say anything. Rene kept her head bowed over the yearbook. She felt his stare but didn’t look up. “Steve, I’ve worked for you for a long time. Usually, I understand what you want or I can figure it out on my own.” “Mmmh,” Steve sniffed. You don’t know the half of it, he thought. “I know that you didn’t go to Pye Academy. And I know that you didn’t graduate in 1971 or 1972, you were just a kid back then. So why did you send me out to look for these? What are you looking for? Just give me a clue, Steve.” Rene looked up quickly, hoping to catch his reaction. But his face gave no clues to his intentions. Without saying a word, Steve got up from his chair and stiffly walked over to the file cabinet. After fingering through the files in the top drawer, eventually, he pulled out a single thin folder. Dog-eared and dirty, the file bore the simple label “Javier.” From the file, Steve pulled out a single sheet of paper, a yellowed copy of a handwritten note, and placed it on the desk before her. “Rene, I need you to find out who wrote this.” Steve sounded as if he were trying to hold back tears. Puzzled, Rene wondered what was wrong. She looked at him, then immediately looked at the note. Maybe she would find a clue in it. She read the note aloud. “I don’t love you anymore and I never want to see you again. I’m going with someone else. Forget me. Goodbye.” She frowned, “No signature, no date? It doesn’t even say who the note is for! How am I supposed to find out who wrote this?” “I think that it was a student at that high school.” “So? I mean, what difference does it make?” “This is only a hunch, but I think that the person who wrote this note might know who killed my brother Javier.” LONG AFTER THE rest of the Tanner, Meyer, and Smertz Clinic’s staff had gone home that Friday, Dr. Brian Tanner sat in the lower level of the clinic, in the records room. Normally, by this time in the evening, he would be at home, asleep. With a cup of water in front of him, he sat at a long table, skimming through patient files and a printout of the current monthly billing statement. He flipped through the top file quickly. For the next file, he took a little more time. Occasionally, he consulted the payment ledger beside him. As he reached the last file in his stack, he decided he needed to talk to the billing manager, Alma Hormiga, first thing on Monday morning. From the last four files, Brian could clearly see that Alma could have been more aggressive in billing. BY 7:30 A.M. on the following Monday morning, five telephone message slips were waiting for Dr. Tom Swanson in his mailbox at the east wing nursing station at the Tanner, Meyer and Smertz Clinic. He had stopped by to pick them up on his way to his office. As Tom walked down the hall, he flipped through the slips to see which he would call back in the few minutes before his first appointment. He flipped through the telephone slips. Patient, patient, patient, Alma, pharmacist. Tom decided to call the pharmacist first. He’d waited a week for him to call back. Down in the pharmacy, at the left-side counter, K.C. Glade picked up the telephone on the first ring. “K.C.? It’s Tom.” “Tom, that drug you ordered is in. Three single-use injections of trihyperboodiol.” “I’ll have Audrey pick it up sometime today.” He made a note to call Audrey. “It’ll be ready for her then. Wait a second,” K.C. leaned over and reached under the counter. From a bin under the counter, K.C. pulled out the invoice and the packing slip. He looked them over and whistled. “This stuff is pretty expensive. At this price, I’d hate to stock it unnecessarily. Do you think that I need to order any more?” “Well, maybe you should,” Tom replied. “Are you sure?” “Well, just wait then, K.C. I don’t know if the patient will respond very well to this. I’ll let you know. Thanks.” After he hung up the telephone, K.C. put the invoice back on the counter and made out the drug order with Audrey’ s name on it. She would have to sign for these injectables; they cost too much to lose track of. TOM PUNCHED IN the number for Audrey Pelson’s extension. “Good morning, Audrey.” At the first nursing station on the east wing, Audrey sat, making chart entries. She hadn’t seen Dr. Swanson go by her desk yet, and two patients were already waiting there for him. “Hi.” She lowered her voice. “I’m glad you called in, Tom. You’ve got two here already. Where are you?” “I’m here--I’m in my office. The Milleson script is in.” “Milleson?” “Yes, you remember, we needed that special injectable for her. Please pick it up at the pharmacy and set up the appointment for her. Thursday or Friday would be best for me.” “Boy, what took so long? You saw her more than a week ago. You would think that they would keep that stuff on hand.” “I don’t know. Get back to me after you’ve set it up. I’ve got another call to make, and then I’ll be right there. Thanks, Audrey.” But the telephone rang as soon as Tom hung it up. “Dr. Swanson, this is Crystal from the Records Department. The three files that you asked for are in. Do you want them by interoffice mail or will you have someone pick them up?” “I’ve got something to take care of near there. I’ll pick them up myself. Thanks, Crystal.” He wouldn’t send anyone else to get those files. Calls to Alma and the three patients would have to wait for now. To avoid going through the east wing nursing station, Tom took the back stairs near his office. He cut through the side hallway to bypass the waiting room in front of the imaging area. Too many people would be there this early in the morning. His boss, Dr. Brian Tanner, might be among them. Comments or Questions? Don't wait; contact me now!
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©2004-2005 Terri Kay. All rights reserved. Terri Kay, PO Box 2861, Elkhart, IN 46515 main@terrikay.com
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